


Snapshots

by BarnesRogersVsTheWorld



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld/pseuds/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld
Summary: Fluffy poly Stucky/reader drabbles in which they live life and Steve makes too many Disney references.





	Snapshots

“Ouch,” Bucky grumbles, leaning forward slightly, away from you. He raises a hand to the back of his head. Gently, you swat it away.

“Don’t. You’ll mess it up,” you answer, combing fingers through the ends of his dark hair. They snag on a tangle. You can feel him cringe.

“That hurts,” he protests, but it’s tinged with laughter.

You scoff, tie off the end of your work, “You’re a super soldier.”

“Doesn’t make me immune to pain.”

You roll your eyes at him even though he cannot see, drop a hand onto his shoulder and guide him back against your knees again.

The day is balmy. A gentle breeze rustles the grass around Bucky’s legs, stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His feet are bare, like your own, which are pressed into the soft ground just below the riverstone where you’re perched. It’s smooth, hot from the sun, not unpleasant.

Wildflowers stipple the earth, grow in a swath that reaches out toward the banks of the river below you, sparkling blue in the sunshine. It almost doesn’t look real.

You pluck a few from around your feet, soft lavender and a deep, honeyed gold, begin to tuck them into Bucky’s freshly plaited hair. He doesn’t protest. He settles against you again, relaxing his shoulders and sighing.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” He murmurs.

You follow his eyes downriver where the two men stand, backs to you both as they survey the water. Even from a distance, King T’Challa commands a regal presence, his stance indicative of his stature as he gestures before him, the fabric of his lightweight, sapphire tunic rippling in the wind. Beside him, looking equally distinguished with strong arms crossed in front of a broad chest is Steve.

Your Steve.

“Reconstruction?” You ponder, tucking more flowers into Bucky’s braid, “Foreign affairs. International camaraderie. Whatever it is leaders talk about.”

He hums against you, leans his head back slightly into your touch. And for a moment you both watch Steve. All hard lines and stoic gestures. He looks calm. Unaffected. But you both know better.

“You think he’ll be okay?” You ask, and the worry that tinges your words causes Bucky to sit up again. He pulls his legs in, crosses them beneath him and gestures for you. You slide off the rock, and strong arms catch you, pull you onto his lap.

Bucky wraps both of them around you. Metal solid and sun warmed against your back. He leans in and presses his lips to the shoulder left bare from your sleeveless dress. They linger on the star shaped scar that graces it, pink and slightly puckered but for the most part healed. A gunshot wound you hadn’t even noticed until the fighting was over. Until the men you loved were safe.

The weeks since Thanos’ defeat had been hard on all of you. Full of healing and planning and mourning the dead.

But they’d been hardest of all on Steve, who deeply mourned the loss of everyone who died fighting for the cause, but most of all the friend he hadn’t quite made amends with.

Tony had died trying to save him. Trying to save you all. And Steve had cried. An open, vulnerable cry that had wrenched your heart in two.

Since then, he’d wake in the night, drenched in a cold sweat between you and Bucky, choking on his sobs as he called out your names. Everyone’s names. But mostly yours. Mostly Bucky’s. And the two of you had never seen Steve as the broken one, but you’d latch onto him in the dark, one on each side, and hold him through it. Whisper soothing thoughts and affirmations as he shuddered between you.

In the mornings he’d stand again before the others. Solid and stoic and ever pressing forward.

A Captain.

Bucky brushes his nose beneath your ear, sweeps your hair over to one side and presses another kiss against your neck.

“I know he’ll be okay,” he answers finally. And the certainty of his tone causes you to tilt your head back. To look up into his wintry blue eyes and raise your brows in question, ‘How?’

“Because he has us,” he says, “And because it’s our turn. To take care of him for a change.”

You smile. It’s soft and a little sad, and you nestle closer into Bucky’s chest. Lean your head against his shoulder and watch Steve in the distance. You’re both quiet for a while, the whooshing of the river relaxing your bones, settling your spirit.

“Know what I wish?” you ask. Bucky’s thumb traces circles into the fabric of your dress, he hums in question, presses his lips into your hair.  
“I wish I could just take him and put him into a room full of everything he loves,” you say, “Sketchbooks. Pencils. Baseball cards. Bad 80s rock music. Disney movies.”

Bucky chuckles, “Us.”

“Us,” you confirm, “I wish I could just lock him up and keep him there forever.”

Bucky’s arms tighten around you, “He wouldn’t go for it,” he says, “you know he wouldn’t. Not when there’s a world to save.”

“He’s done enough of that already,” you answer, but you know Bucky’s right.

You watch as Steve shakes T’Challa’s hand, as the Wakandan king turns from the river and begins to walk away. And then Steve turns, and his eyes fall onto you. Onto Bucky. His broad stature blocks the sun as he walks toward you. It casts his body into shadow, radiates brightly around his edges. He looks like an angel.

He slouches onto the ground beside Bucky, leans against his shoulder and runs a hand through his own dirty blonde hair.

“What are we talking about over here?” He asks. His voice is tired. His eyes are world weary. But he offers you a sweet smile.

“All the things we’re going to do when we get home,” you answer. His brows raise in surprise. No politics. No war talk. No queries on his discussion with the King. You know that’s not what he needs right now, and Bucky’s arms tighten briefly around you in agreement, in thanks, as Steve seems to relax.

“Yeah? Like what?” he asks, fingers innocently catching the hem of your dress, fussing into the cotton.

“We were thinking Citi Field. Me, you, Buck. Overpriced beer and hot dogs until we puke. I’ll buy you a foam finger. Or those sticks you clap together. How does that sound?”

A smile quirks his mouth, a small laugh escapes his lips.

“Normal,” he says finally, “It sounds normal.” He glances up from your dress. To you. Blue eyes soft as he asks, “Do we do that anymore?”

And Bucky smiles a rueful smile, “Did we ever?”

And you’re shifting in his lap. He’s releasing his grip on you, grasping your hips instead, helping you as you climb over to Steve.

And Steve welcomes the contact. Pulls you tight against his chest, dips his head down and catches your lips in a gentle kiss. You nestle closer to him as he sighs. A contented sigh, for once.

He holds you with one arm, drops the other hand beside him in search of Bucky’s. When their fingers meet, when they twine, their eyes connect finally, and Bucky smiles. Steve watches him for a moment, his head cocks slightly to one side, as if he is only just seeing him for the first time. His gaze sweeps over Bucky’s face. His flower-braided hair. He blinks. His mouth curves upward into a smile.

“You going to watch some sky lanterns in Corona, Princess?” He asks.

The laugh that escapes your lips is shocked. Surprised. And Steve’s shoulders shake slightly as he begins to laugh, too.

And that beautiful laugh, coupled with the pure, innocent face of confusion Bucky now wears is enough to make your heart swell. To fill you up with love and affection.

Bucky furrows his brows, stretches his legs out in front of him again and flexes his bare feet. He stares at you both, your sweet, curious Rapunzel as he questions, “Corona? Where’s that?”

Steve tilts his head down, presses his lips to your shoulder as his laugh dies down to a silent chuckle.

“I’ll show you when we get home,” you answer, cheeks aching as you reach out and place your fingers beneath his chin, tilt it so that he’s looking you head on. Your smile is unceasing as you add, affectionately, “Our Springtime Soldier.”


End file.
